


In This Abyss

by Jmeelee



Series: This Must Be the Place [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Journalism, Journalist Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Research, Time Jump, letter writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-11-01 13:26:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10922721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jmeelee/pseuds/Jmeelee
Summary: “He’s always out there, isn’t he?” Scott asked quietly.  “Derek Hale.”Stiles had looked at Scott, and lied straight to his face.  “Derek Hale is probably dead.  I don’t think about him anymore.”Lies, lies, lies. On good days, like this one, he can almost convince himself to believe them.





	In This Abyss

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Derekhles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Derekhles/gifts).



> This fic is a thank you gift for Derekhles, who introduced me to the joy that is Sterek. Thanks for answering all my Teen Wolf questions and giving me great fic recommendations.
> 
> If you like this fic please check out the sequel, Home to Me, which is part of this series. :-)

Be with me always take any form  
Drive me mad! Only do not leave me  
In this abyss where I can not find you.  
-Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heights 

**5 months after Derek**

He considers himself a very good researcher, but this isn’t _research_. This is curiosity, he tells himself; base human instinct. No big deal. But that doesn’t explain the lying. 

Stiles blows off lacrosse practice, telling Scott he has a paper due for History class, and heads to the Beacon Hills Public Library. He hardly ever comes here anymore, but the older librarians still remember him and his mother frequenting story time when he was a child, before she passed away. It probably helps that, as sheriff, his father sometimes responds to security calls about unruly patrons needing to be removed from the premises. Oh, the joys of the public service industry. 

He seats himself in the far corner of the computer coral, and logs on to an ancient desktop with his library card number. Technically, he should be over eighteen to use one of these computers, but he sits down with confidence, and no one bothers him. 

There is a database Stiles wants to take advantage of, that houses business and residential contact information for the entire United States. He pulls out a red notebook and tugs the finely sharpened pencil out from behind his ear, rhythmically tapping the half used eraser against the cardboard cover of the book. His goal today: to copy down the phone numbers for every D. Hale listed. 

It’s a shot in the dark, wildly unlikely to yield any positive results, and he’s not even sure why he is skipping out on practice with his best friend to go on this digital wild goose chase, but he can’t help it. He needs to try, to do something. He can’t stand the helplessness anymore. He can’t stand not knowing. 

The library clerks quickly become wise to his baby face, and start to circulate every four minutes like clockwork, checking over his shoulder to make sure he isn’t some disobedient, perverted teen attempting to watch hardcore pornography in public. They are distracting, like gnats buzzing around his head. He wars with his ADHD, trying to ignore them and focus on the task at hand. When he logs off, there are twenty-seven phone numbers written in graphite on the pages his book. _Is it you?_ He silently asks each one. 

He drives his jeep to Keller’s gas station. Every spare cent he could dig up from cup holders and couch cushions and the top of his dad’s dresser weigh down his steps as he heads toward the pay phone welded to the side of the building. It is a relic of a bygone era, the only one left in Beacon Hills. His money runs out on phone number thirteen, but it doesn’t matter. None of these numbers are Derek. 

Stiles drops the receiver and presses his back against the side of the gas station, the rough grit of the bricks pricking him through his t-shirt as he takes deep, ragged breaths. He needs an Adderall. He wants to cry. Fuck Derek for leaving, and fuck himself for giving a shit. 

He pushes away from the wall with his sneaker and heads back toward the jeep. The engine turns over twice before roaring to life. If he heads home now, he can catch Scott before he leaves for his date with Kira, maybe talk him into going out for a burger and curly fries. He vows, as he pulls out of the parking lot, that this was a one-off, a moment of insanity that won’t be repeated. Derek doesn’t want to be found, so Stiles will not find him. He needs to let Derek go. 

Stiles swears he can still hear the dial tone echoing in his ears when he walks up to Scott’s front door. 

_Dear Stiles,_  


_I write you letters I won’t ever send. You probably don’t want to hear from me; definitely don’t need to. I’m sorry I ran away. Everything hurt so bad. I had to go, knew it deep down for a while. I need to learn to be someone new, someone better, more like who I used to be. Scott will take care of you; he’ll take care of everyone. Better than I ever could have._

_Cora and I are making a fresh start. It’s my chance, to be the brother I should have been, the one I was before Kate. If I never do anything else good with my life, at least I know that I am giving my only remaining family everything I can._

_I asked her today, to go to the store and buy me some writing paper. She wanted to know why I choose to write to you, of all people. I told her, it was because you were the only person in Beacon Hills to look at me without seeing only the tragedy I came from. You are my anchor, and there was so much in my head I wanted to say to you._

_She looked at me like I was demented, but she took my credit card, and came home with linen stationary that cost twenty-five dollars a box. Twenty-five dollars to write a letter that I will lock in a box under my bed. Some would say it’s a waste, twenty-five dollars to write a letter that you will never read._

_But I’d write to you on pure gold, if I could._

**5 years after Derek**

Stiles is an _awesome_ researcher. The skill has always come in handy, but these days he is gathering information on communication law and quantitative reasoning, rather than Werewolves, Kanimas and Mountain Ash. 

But no matter how good be becomes at finding information, no one would call what he is doing tonight _research_. He is sitting alone in his dorm room, lights off, googling Derek Hale’s name. No, this isn’t research, this is obsession, fueled by the six-pack of cheap beer he bought from the Quickie Mart that never checks IDs. He’s twenty-one now, but the reflection looking back at him in the mirror still resembles a teenager. Based on his search history for the last half hour, he is still acting like a teenager, too. 

This is a painful, pointless endeavor. He has googled Derek a million times since high school, and there is never an internet crumb to be tracked. He passes out around the seventy-fifth search engine hit, and wakes in the morning with an imprint of the keyboard on his left cheek. 

After throwing on his usual college uniform of t-shirt, flannel shirt, jeans and sneakers, he heads down to the campus coffee house for some much needed caffeine to chase away his hangover. He can’t say what it is that makes him glance over at the parking lot when he gets back to the front of his dorm, but he swears, for one irrational second, that he sees Derek sitting behind the wheel of a rusted out pickup truck idling next to the hedges. Even though he only sees him in profile, he is _sure_ it’s Derek, not just a delusion brought about by his midnight researching, and Stiles turns fully to make his way over to the truck. 

Just as he is about to head toward the car, the stranger pulls away from the curb, driving off. Stiles runs, hangover be damned, doesn’t give himself time to think. He runs like he is at lacrosse practice, and Finstock is making him do suicides. He runs like he’s being chased by the alpha pack, but it makes no difference. A quarter mile later he gives up, kicking over a trash can in his rage, and stomping on some poor unsuspecting person's flowers. He fists his hands in his hair and, lifting his eyes toward the grey rain clouds gathering over his head, howls loud and mournful enough to rival any wolf. 

He is so fucking _stupid_. It doesn’t matter how fast he can run, because he is chasing after a ghost. When he gets back to his room, he swears he is going to throw away the red notebook he has kept since high school, the one he has been filling with phone numbers and bits of information he has gathered over the years. He is going to toss it in the trash and be done with this shit, for real, this time. Maybe light it on fire, for good measure. 

Fuck Derek Hale. Derek doesn't care enough about Stiles or anyone from Beacon Hills to even let them know he is alive, so Stiles isn’t going to think about him anymore. He has better things to do with his time. 

_Dear Stiles,  
_

_Another man told me I was a lost cause, said I was looking through him, like he wasn’t there. I liked him, and I was sorry the relationship had to end with him feeling that way, but he’s right. Part of me isn’t finished, isn’t there. I know it makes no sense after all these years, but I believe I’d be different with you._

_That’s why I did it, and I’m sorry. I had to get a look at you. Drove down to your campus, hunted for you at your school. I waited outside your dorm, just to see you. I watched you walk across the yard. You walked like you were in a hurry, strong and slick. It was wrong, I know, but I just needed to see how you grew up. And you grew up so fine, Stiles. Filled out all your lanky limbs, grew into those graceful hands. And your hair. God, I love it long like that. Wanted to run my fingers through it, know it’s softness. You looked so good. The way you moved. The way you turned out. I couldn’t dream you any better than you are, and trust me, I dream of you often._

_One look and I wanted to grab you, hold you, kiss you. I wanted to take you away, bring you back home with me and make love to you, kiss your hair and hear you say my name and smile because we’re still special, but in a new way. It’s madness. We don’t know each other anymore, probably will never meet again. You grew up, and I have too._

_So, I am sorry. I am very, very sorry that I came to take a look at you. Because now I know how to go on picturing you in my mind._

_It hurts. Bad._

**10 years A.D.**

Stiles finds that life turns in large circles, too large to notice until it brings you back to some touchstone, to home, to fractured memories of a love you thought you’d never need again. 

It’s a balmy morning in early May, and Stiles is heading to lunch down a side street that borders the brick wall of the building he works at. The city rumbles and sings around him, the bright California sunshine glinting off parked cars with saltwater rust coating their fenders, and palm tree air fresheners hanging from their rearview mirrors. He has lived here in San Francisco since college. It is only a few hours drive from Beacon Hills, an hour by plane, but he hasn’t been home since Christmas. Now that Melissa is taking care of his father, making sure he doesn’t subsist on the cop diet of fast food and donuts, he doesn’t feel the burning desire to return to the nest. Beacon Hills may be home, but it is home to some very sad memories as well. 

He has always been an expert researcher, and finally, it has paid off. Originally hired on to bolster sagging circulation and increase digital readership, he is now the head reporter at the San Francisco Chronicle. And today is a great day because the morning edition is still on display in banks of newspaper boxes along the curbs. The lead story, strategically located beneath an eye-catching color photo of the the city’s national baseball team, is an article bearing his name. The headline, outlined in blue and gold, reads _‘From Fear to Hope.’_ It’s the crowning achievement of six months of fieldwork and interviews, and is by far his best writing to date. The rumor is already flying around the office that this series will win him a Pulitzer. 

He had met Cathy half a year ago while researching an article on local domestic violence shelters. When Stiles got back to his office and told his editor he’d found the perfect case study for a series about domestic violence, his editor had been skeptical. 

“What do you want to write about, exactly? You want to tell people how the system works? Will readers care?” 

“That’s the thing,” Stiles countered. “The system _doesn’t_ work. Cathy’s ex-husband violated two restraining orders in the past year. They arrest him, sure, but as soon as he gets out of jail, the dude’s back to stalking her again. He shows up at her apartment, makes a scene, and her landlord kicks her out. Last month he set fire to her car! And then, the judge grants him bail on the arson case. He’s threatened to kill her if she testifies against him in court. I could help her, sir. If we publicize her story, show the world what abusers are like, maybe he will back off.” 

“You have a bleeding heart, Stilinski, God bless you for it, but I deal in economic realities. Not everyone shares your sentiments. It has to sell newspapers. Are readers going to like her?” 

Stiles hadn’t wanted to admit it at the time, but his editor was right about him. Cathy was Allison and Boyd and Erica and Isaac, all the people he and Derek had failed. But Stiles was a grown man now, and he’d be damned if he would admit he was still chasing teenaged phantoms. 

“She’s a nice white veterinary technician,” Stiles had told him sardonically, “she cuddles puppies and kittens all day. Or at least she did, before she got fired because her ex showed up at her office one too many times. And get this, she wrote a letter to the governor last year begging for help, and his office sent her back a form letter saying thank you for supporting our state parks.” 

“Oh shit,” his editor had grinned. “Run with it, Stilinski.” 

So run with it he did. Six months and six articles later, he has turned Cathy into a minor celebrity. They’ve appeared together on a local PBS issues show, and were interviewed on public radio, as well. Stiles’s series is running in syndication nationwide. 

He walks on, pleased. It is a good day, it’s a good life, everything under control and moving smoothly. His life is seamless with the uneasy glue of ambition and long hours at work. Despite what Scott says, he isn’t lonely, can’t possibly be, with the endless parade of people and events he covers for the newspaper. He doesn’t have the energy to focus on himself, which is how he likes it. All his time is spent picking apart other people’s lives a like a hungry crow. 

Scott had questioned his life choices when he, Kira and their preschool age daughter visited for a weekend a few months back. “You live on the edge of something,” he told Stiles one night over a few beers. “Is it exciting? Is it worth it? Your dad, Stiles, he worries…” 

“Life is short,” Stiles had tossed back glibly. “Work hard, play fast, and never look back.” 

“He’s always out there, isn’t he?” Scott asked quietly. “Derek Hale.” 

Stiles had looked at Scott, and lied straight to his face. “Derek Hale is probably dead. I don’t think about him anymore.” 

Lies, lies, lies. On good days, like this one, he can almost convince himself to believe them. 

He strides up to the mobile taco cart parked out front of a popular t-shirt shop. “How’s it going, Eddie?” he greets the tattooed vendor, who hawks the most delicious street food in all of San Francisco. Eddie grins at him, already preparing Stiles’s usual order. 

“Read your article today, Stilinski,” Eddie says with a smile. “Good stuff. So, when will you do an article about me?” 

“When you give me free food,” Stiles laughs, reaching for a napkin. 

As he stands there waiting for his order, a taxi pulls to stop at the end of the block. He gives it an idle glance, as a tall, dark-haired man exits the back passenger side door. He almost catches a glimpse of the man’s face before he strides into a nearby cafe. 

“Hey! Stiles? Where are you going?” Eddie calls out to him. Stiles throws a ten dollar bill in the tip cup and darts up the street. He bursts through the cafe doors, nearly upending a flimsy table by the door stacked with bags of designer coffee grinds. At the counter is the stranger, waiting for his order. 

Stiles slides up behind him. “Derek Hale?” he asks, low and breathless from his run. 

He turns, and there is nothing familiar about his face. His eyes are a simple blue, instead of the stunning kaleidoscope of colors that were Derek’s eyes. Stiles never could pick out one definitive shade; they changed with outfit, mood, and whenever Derek shifted. “Excuse, please?” the stranger asks in a thick, unidentifiable accent. 

Stiles turns and walks out, squinting in the sunshine, his sweaty, shaking hands clasped around his biceps. He can see Eddie, waving him down from behind his taco cart, but Stiles can’t bring himself to walk back right now. _Ten years_ he thinks. _A decade, and I am still just a kid chasing a fantasy. What the fuck is wrong with me?_

This is it, the final straw. He can’t live like this anymore. The self humiliation needs to stop. 

The vow is as hollow as countless times before. 

He is getting too old to believe in fairy-tale endings. 

_Dear Stiles,  
_

_I’ve been keeping track of all your stories. People always joked that I was creepy, and I guess they aren’t wrong, even after all this time. I have a subscription to the newspaper you write for, and follow your stories online. You have a way with words; they always came easy to you, a mile a minute sometimes. I never had any words. Strange how we could never really talk when we knew each other, but when we both put words to paper, it’s magic. That’s why I keep writing to you, ten years later. You know me, you always did._

_I watched you and the woman you are helping on television last night. Recorded it so I could hear your voice again. I had forgotten what your voice, your laugh, sounded like. It makes me feel close to you when I hear it, like you are sitting beside me, part of my everyday life._

_This is a dangerous situation you are writing about, Stiles. Call it a sixth sense, or my overprotective nature, but I don’t like it. Men like her ex-husband remind me of Isaac's dad. They think they own people. I know you are trying to make something good come out of the mess, trying to help in the most human of ways, as you always have, but I worry. Sometimes nothing but death can make those kind of men stop. I don’t want you caught in the crossfire._

_It’s wrong to keep watching, I should just let you go, but I can’t. You are inside my heart. So, I’ll keep watching. Reading, anyway. And if you ever need me, I’ll know. I’ll be there._

_Promise. If you ever need me._

_I’ll be there._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> The direct sequel to this story is Home to Me, part of this series.


End file.
